


When the Night Comes Down...

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Band Fic, Banter, Best Friends, Caretaking, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Depressed Brian May, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Intense, Nicknames, One Shot, Platonic Kissing, References to Depression, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Singing, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepy Cuddles, Swearing, Tender Roger Taylor, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 14:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: "Once I could see the good in me, the black and the white distinctively coloring; holding the world inside. Now all the world is grey to me, nobody can see-- you gotta believe it" - Brian May, 'The Night Comes Down'Things are tough sometimes. But when you care about someone, you do what you can when they're hurting. You do what you can all the time, but especially when they're hurting. And when you've got a giant friend you've known long enough to be able to tell when he needs you to be close, well. You're going to bloody be there.(Or, Roger can tell when Brian is struggling, and he is not going to let his friend face life alone.)





	When the Night Comes Down...

Roger jumps into bed with Brian when he is going through a rough patch. Having a hard time. He has come to recognise the signs of Brian's depression, the ways he gets sometimes. Beyond moodiness and his usual pensive nature--some days, he doesn't get out of bed. 

"Budge over, Brian," Roger says, and then, snuggling close to his lanky mate, adds "C'mon, come out for a walk with me. We need to buy food, if I have to eat any more beans on toast I'm going to fucking murder Freddie."

Brian grunts. "...why kill Fred and not John?"

Roger pulls a face. "What the fuck kind of question is that, Bri? I'd never kill John." His eyes sparkle. "...unless he gets behind my drums without permission." 

The lanky man rolls his eyes, facing away from Rog. Brian's shoulders are hunched up to his ears, black curls cinched under blankets wrapped round, almost appearing strangling, rather than splayed across the guitarist's shoulders as usual. It makes Roger's heart thump painfully but he swallows the pain and scoots over, pressing himself into Brian's back, rubbing both hands across his friend's shoulders over the blanket in a gentle massage. "C'mon Brian," he croons, wheedles. "Don't make me face life alone."

"In general, or in prison?" Asks Brian.

Roger chuckles, a soft huff of mirth. Blimey but Bri is quick. "...Both." He leans his face into Brian's soft hair, lips pressing against the smooth pale skin at the nape of his neck. He doesn't want to beg, but he knows Brian needs to do something, and Roger needs for his mate to be all right. So he breaks his no begging rule. "C'mon Bri, please." _For me if not for you,_ he adds in his head, and clutches Brian closer after thinking that. Terrible, but he is sure Bri would jump to it if Roger said that aloud. Anything for his mate, but Rog yearns for the other man to choose for his own sake, his own happiness for once. _Please._

Brian feels exhausted, worn out. He aches, but not in a physical way. He just feels alone and awful and down, cannot shake it and is beyond frustrated with himself that he cannot. He sighs heavily but does not, cannot move except to fall onto his back.

Brian's forehead is lined and bunched in worry, and Roger moves into his side and reaches up, stroking his skin with strong but gentle fingers, trailing across his friend's face to rub Brian's temples and push back his hair. He looks so pale-- and small, somehow. 

He feels cold, numb, emotionless, like a shell. Can't even work himself up to cry, and he's shaking as Roger leans over his lean body, stroking Brian's thick curls back with one hand and cupping his face with the other. The drummer's voice is a whispering husk-- so quiet, particularly for exuberant forceful Roger. 

Rog now croons to his friend a mix of endearments and the lyrics of a song, a lullaby he'd heard and very nearly forgotten from when he was young:

_Who's that coming, who's that strumming? That's the man with the banjo; for a penny he'll play any song that's happy and gay. Boom boom ba-boom_

_Folks all smile, and stop awhile, because the man with the banjo… Makes their troubles, burst like bubbles, chasin' worries away._

_See the children running after, as he plays his merry so--o--o--ong. All their hearts are filled with laughter, as they tag along._

_Shadows falling, sandman's calling, there goes the man with the banjo. Gaily humming, softly strumming, chasin' worries away._

Roger's high voice catches a little on the phrase "chasin' worries away" and his voice aches as much as his heart because of how much he longs to do that for Brian, how much he wishes he could. And then Roger presses his lips to Brian's temple, and his forehead, and even the bridge of his nose, because Brian is shaking and has started to whimper a bit, and Rog tries doing whatever he can to help. "Oh, Bri, hold onto me, mate. I'm here, I've got you." Brian's shaking hand lifts and clutches Roger's shirt at his side, gripping so tight to the cloth and to Roger's skin underneath that it almost hurts but Rog gives not one single solitary fuck. "That's it." 

Brian is blinking rapidly, but he still cannot cry, though there is an ache in his throat and a burning behind his eyes that tells him he ought to, maybe it could bring some relief...and yet the tears won't, don't come. He just shakes and feels himself growing warm by increments as Roger's hands rove over his face and arms and chest and shoulders, touching and stroking him as those soft lips keep pressing to his cold exposed skin. God, Rogie is so good to him.

Roger tells Brian how much he loves him, and every other word is a swear word. "Fuck, Brian, I fucking love you so much, damn it. I know you're fucking hurting, but shut your goddamn mouth because you deserve love, you giant, sorry, stubborn bastard!"

Freddie calls through the wall because Roger's voice has risen and he basically shouted all that. "All right, Roger darling, think that's enough?"

John deadpans "...You know, I don't think he's actually used enough swear words yet, Freddie."

Freddie punctuates every compliment he bequeaths with a kiss, but for Roger, at this point, emulating Fred--it is because he's got to get Brian to believe him, this means too much. Bri is drowning in his depression and Roger is going to fucking help. If he's got to emulate Fred in all his dear decency, so be it. 

Brian is shocked now as Roger, who is always growling out irascible compliments, is shaking, his eyes are wet even as his tone is snapping. But after every comment made he's bending to brush his lips over Brian's skin. Or rather, he's pressing them heavily with intense abandon, because Roger doesn't go halfway with his kisses. No light gentle caresses are these; Freddie does that shite. It works for him. But Rog exhibits too much passion; his lips are burning, needing, sending all his desperation twanging through Brian as he growls all of his comments and presses his lips to the skin of Brian's face.

"Fuck, Brian--" fingers tangling in his midnight hair "You're bloody wonderful." A kiss to the temple. "So damn smart and considerate and kind," Roger trails kisses down his cheek "And yet how the fuck you think you don't deserve consideration and kindness BACK is ruddy ridiculous!" Roger locks his lips onto Brian's jaw and curls his hand around his friend's face, holding him as he mouths along the bone. "For fuck's sake," Roger's tone is husky and furious as he murmurs against his friend's skin. And yet it is impossibly gentle as well, somehow. "Bri, you're practically bloody perfect." Lifting his lips for a moment and curving both hands around his friend's face, thumbs stroking Brian's cheekbones, Roger stares straight into fractured piteous hazel eyes. "And don't think that doesn't piss me the fuck off." He growls this last and adds "--But I still love you," before moving in and pressing his lips to Brian's. Roger had not kissed Bri on the mouth until then, so that final kiss after he says he loves him is meant as indelible proof, a "so there!"

Brian's body jerks as his mouth opens in a gasp. Everything he's feeling, the numbness, the aching, all of it-- all finally comes to a head at that moment, at this expression of love, and finally finally Brian is able to cry. He's clutching at Roger as the drummer kisses him, and tears begin pouring down his lean cheeks.

***

Brian cannot sleep that night. He tosses and turns for hours, and his eyes look like black holes the next day, standing out in his pale thin face. It is frigid outdoors as well as inside, and so the others gather blankets and pillows to plop before the fireplace. 

Brian feels as though he is moving through molasses or amber, an insect stuck in glue or upon flypaper. Roger notes that and inquires "Bri, you alright mate?"

Brian's shoulders slump and he deflates. He cannot hide; for once he tells the truth without an endless amount of prodding: "Honestly, Rogie, no," he says, trembling.

Instant alertness sharpens Roger's gaze, hardens his features into worried points. He takes Brian's arm and pulls him, lending strength, dragging Bri free from his molasses state for a moment. "Anything I can do? You want to talk about it?"

"There’s not really anything to talk about, though I appreciate you offering to listen. I just feel tired, and--and purposeless, Rog. But don’t worry about me, I’m fine."

Roger snorts. "Saying you feel tired and purposeless doesn't give me the impression that you're fucking fine, Brian." The helpless pleading look in the guitarist's eyes makes Roger hurt even as he backs off. "Right, just--go siddown by the fire, yeah? Go on." Brian stares, and "Go _ON,_" Roger repeats with a shove. As his friend hunches down and curls in upon himself, Rog wraps a blanket snugly around him and presses a hot drink into Brian's hand. He smooths wild curls off Bri's forehead before plopping beside him, leaning into Bri's side. Brian looks down at him, opening his mouth as if to speak again, to explain all the little reasons that prove he is fine, or better than he was last night when they were talking, but "Shut up. Clearly you aren't fine, but I'm here." Roger interjects brusquely. "Now drink."

Brian's lips tremble, as do his hands as he lifts his drink and sips, not caring how hot it is, because he wants to feel something, anything. And he feels warm from the drink and Roger's words. "Thank you, Rog," he whispers.

Roger huffs and shakes back his hair as he leans into Brian's side with a hot beverage of his own. "You're welcome," he growls. Freddie and John have their own quiet conversation snuggling next to Roger and Brian in front of the fire, John's head in Freddie's lap as the singer gestures with one hand and strokes back the bassist's hair with the other. 

Brian keeps sipping his drink, and tears prick his eyes at their easy gentleness, the care, the release of feeling through chatting that John and Fred have. He doesn't speak, but begins silently sobbing, letting out everything he feels without words; and Roger feels his tall friend shaking as he looks up at him. 

"Fuck, Brian--" he pushes back a bit of blond hair and gulps the last of his drink, setting it down before leaping, turning to kneel facing his friend at the sight of tears. He pushes a hand through Bri's hair and then wipes at his cheeks. Brian's face puckers, he keeps crying, and so Roger begins to sing softly as he cups Brian's face in his hands, transposing some words: "Touch your tears... with my lips," kissing the puckered skin under Brian's leaking eyes, tasting the salt from his tears. "Touch your world with my fingertips..." Letting go of Bri's cheek, Roger reaches down and threads their fingers together before lifting Brian's lengthy hand and kissing it, the back and knuckles and fingers, whispering "...and we can have forever, and we can love forever." Lifting fierce bright blue eyes to haunted, broken, sad hazel ones, Roger says rather than sings "Forever is our today, Brimi. And it's everything, because I'm not fucking going anywhere."

Brian's lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile even as he croaks out brokenly, wrapping both arms around Roger and holding him close: "...Who wants forever anyway?" And then Brian clears his throat. "I'll... go to the store with you, Roger," he says.

Roger's head shoots up, his hooded eyes brightening. "Really?"

"Yeah." Brian rubs the drummer's back, eyes soft with affection. "Can't have my best mate barely surviving on beans and toast, can I?"

Roger chokes and presses his face into Brian's chest for another hug. "Damn right," he retorts, and adds in a high murmur "...thank fucking god."

**Author's Note:**

> This is an intense piece. I want to thank my dear friend Vi; for what, I hope she knows. This is for her.
> 
> My thanks to Roger Taylor and Brian May for being wonderful. 
> 
> *This is a bit fuzzy on time, I figure it works as 70s Queen but I know "Who Wants To Live Forever" is from the 80s, so they are either in a shared flat or on tour together in a house ;) Feel free to imagine it as you will.
> 
> *"The Man With The Banjo" is a lullaby my grandmother and mother sang to me
> 
> *I have seen multiple interviews where Brian has spoken of his struggles with depression, and felt I needed to write this piece. I write with utmost respect and admiration, and I hope everyone going through struggles and dark times has a friend like Roger to provide some light. 
> 
> *The title of this piece includes the title of a song written by Brian from Queen's first album.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


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